


Anamnesis

by retorica



Series: The Reader is the Monster [3]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Amnesia, Body Horror, F/M, Icky Stuff, Kissing, Monsters, Vampire yet not Vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 17:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13617723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retorica/pseuds/retorica
Summary: The First Order finds your unconscious body during one of their exploratory missions, but you can't remember anything. Or can you?





	Anamnesis

This place does not look familiar, but how the hell would you know?

You can’t remember anything.

They’ve labeled you an amnesiac for lack of a better word. The medical unit informed you that you have suffered some considerable brain damage and that you will undergo a slow recovery.

The good news is that it’s partial amnesia. So, you still remember basic stuff like how to eat and wash and dress yourself. You can recognize rooms and facilities and vehicles. You’re vaguely aware of the galaxy, though you can’t remember who is in charge at the moment.  

“ _We_ are, of course,” one of your captors tells you. He is the General around here. “We plan to instill order in the universe. Everyone who shares our vision is welcome to join us.”

You’re not sure what to say. You can’t contemplate the past or who you used to be. That window is closed for the moment. Maybe your real persona is a supporter of their organization, or a staunch opponent. You’re not mentally fit for an ideology at the moment.

Either way, you’re grateful they got you out of that wreck. A division of Stormtroopers found your unconscious body a few feet away from the explosion. They transported you to the main ship and the medical unit. Blood was trickling down your forehead like a curtain. You still feel it on your eyelids sometimes.

General Hux says you are free to leave once your recovery is completed and you can identify yourself. Your facial features have not come up on their digital database and this is a matter of slight concern. You cannot be sent out into space as a Nobody.

“For your safety, of course,” he assures you.

Privately, you understand it’s more complicated than that. They are keeping you on their Base because you could be… _anyone_ , and this anyone might have useful information.

Or dangerous information.  

You hope for something that many people don’t, usually. You hope that your mind is boring.

 

 

It’s really strange not to be able to name yourself. You are just you, a person that lives in the now without any reference to a particular space and time. It’s as if you came out of your mother’s womb as a fully grown woman. You don’t feel anything about yourself. You don’t know whether you have a short temper, or if you like music. You don’t know what makes you ill or what makes you happy. Your face in the mirror looks like an advertisement, one of those cheap holograms floating at different outposts across the galaxy. See, you recall _some_ things about the world.

The only thing you know is that you’re hungry. They feed you a full meal of synthetic rations every day but it never seems to sate you. The food just doesn’t agree with you. You often regurgitate it in the ‘fresher. Perhaps your diet on wherever you used to live was different. Incompatible. But what does that say about you?

You clean your teeth in the ‘fresher one night and you stop because…you don’t remember your teeth. Is this what they’re supposed to look like? You give yourself a wide grin, stretching your mouth, inspecting your canines. They’re regular, but they don’t look like _your_ canines, somehow.

You’re suddenly afraid you’ll never remember. You jam a finger down your throat. You throw up in the sink. The vomit is yellow, with flecks of black in it. Like tiny seeds.

You rinse your mouth until it feels raw, until it feels better.

You slap your cheeks. _Get a hold of yourself._

But _who_ is yourself?

 

 

It’s only the small things that bother you, like your teeth. Often enough, you can go for days without remembering your amnesia. Ironic, isn’t it?

You sleep a lot. You don’t dream of anything in particular. Maybe just different types of nothingness, like one black hole swallowing another black hole. You stare at the ceiling, counting the air slats. When you’re allowed to walk around the Base, you have to be accompanied by a special guard and you only do it for the exercise and the fresh air. You look up at the sky and see a star twinkling in the distance. There’s something comforting about the fact that every planet is vulnerable, that every sphere in the galaxy is open. You can’t hide from the sky.

Below, you observe the back and forth of Stromtroopers and their commanding officers. You’re grateful you don’t have to wear a helmet like that. You inhale deeply and every smell is new, everything about the world is freshly made for you.

 

 

“You will be happy to know I have secured you a private audience with Supreme Leader Snoke. If anyone can fix – that is – _open_ your mind, it is him.” General Hux seems very happy with the news. You ask more questions about this Supreme Leader, but all you can assess is that he is “ancient” and “wise”. Two useless adjectives.

General Hux mentions something about the “Force”. When you ask for details, he remains circumspect. He can’t pronounce himself conclusively. The “Force” is a topic only Supreme Leader Snoke can breach.

You are slightly afraid, though you can’t name this fear, much like you cannot name yourself.

You expect that whatever procedure this Supreme Being will employ, it will hurt.

But they are not giving you much of a choice, and the truth is that you _do_ want to get better even if it involves taking some risks.

 

 

The Great Hall doesn’t seem to have an end in sight. The walls are crimson red, gleaming like bloodstained gums. You remember your teeth in the mirror. You remember _something_ , at least.

A deformed creature, half-man, half-crater, sits on an elevated throne. His robe is made of fine golden thread. He is surrounded by guards in brick-red armor. So much color hurts your eyes.

Ah, there is a black point in this universe.

There’s an obsidian figure kneeling by the throne. He rises at your approach.

“Come, Child,” Supreme Leader Snoke addresses you hoarsely, dragging his finger forward. A gentle breeze nips at your heels.

“I hear your memory has not improved since you were rescued,” he says paternally, but his kindness sounds derisive, like he never expected it _would_ improve.

You stop next to the figure in black. He or she regards you attentively, but you can’t tell what he or she is thinking. You stare openly at the intimidating helmet. Can he or she breathe in that thing?

“This is my apprentice,” Snoke introduces him pointedly. “He will open your mind for me.”

It’s a he, then.

Will they crack you open like an egg?

Is this how you die? Like a lab rat?

The thought comes randomly into your head. This giant hall, the ostentatious guards, the hungry look in Snoke’s eyes….nothing about it bodes well.  

The figure speaks to you. His voice comes out warbled, processed through by machines.

“You won’t die.”

He raises his gloved hand at you, but he doesn’t try to touch you. He holds his fingers inches away from your face.  You feel it all at once, the pulsation of something foreign. It’s invisible, but it sneaks beneath your skin. Soft tendrils latch onto your scalp, leeches that thirst for something else other than your blood.

You expect it to hurt, but it doesn’t. It’s like sinking into salt water. The temperature slowly rises. You feel beads of sweat on your forehead, at the back of your head. It’s not entirely unpleasant. This must be the “Force”. Is it a medical procedure? Does it heal? You feel it might, because it is soothing. You don’t have to bear the burden of your own thoughts anymore. Someone else is trying to govern them.  Maybe this “apprentice” will find the truth in your mind; maybe he will whisper your name.

You’re not as afraid anymore, so you open yourself a little. Your shoulders sag and you lift your arms, as if to receive more of this “Force”.

 

 

The apprentice reaches further into your mind, leaping over the last obstacle. It’s rather refreshing to get consent. Usually, the people he “interrogates” put up a fight. But he is not exactly interrogating you. He doesn’t yet know what information you possess, and neither do you.  

So you don’t put up a fight.

He digs deeper, steps confidently into your unconscious.

And stops. He looks around... disoriented.

He blinks. Perhaps it’s the helmet.

He takes it off, but the scenery is the same. He is no longer in the red hall. There is no throne.

He is inside a dark tunnel. But it is not anywhere inside the ship. This space looks alive. It shifts and coils like a giant worm, as if it were moving.

He tries to take a step forward but the tunnel stretches and surrounds him. He turns left, then right, but the tunnel remakes itself. He hits the wall with his fist and his hand goes through the viscous membrane.

It is slick with saliva.

He gasps in revulsion and shrinks away.

He is inside…a dark throat, the belly of the underworld. He can’t make sense of it.

He inhales sharply and covers his mouth. He runs against the membrane and pushes through.

His armor glistens with noxious, sweet-smelling excretions.

He is inside another tunnel, very much like the one before. He feels weak all of a sudden, exhausted.

He can’t find his helmet. He removes his gloves which are now covered in muck.

Is this your mind? Is this the depth of your unconscious?

Where...are you?

And as if he’s beckoned you, you come.

You seem to detach yourself from the membrane behind him. You coil around his back and your chin rests on his shoulder for a moment.

Kylo Ren freezes.

You speak into his ear. “I’ve been waiting for a Force user…”

And you sink your canines into the soft, delicious skin of his throat. Right in that sweet spot where the veins curl and twine.  

In the mirror, your teeth felt foreign and different, but you welcome them home now.

You’re not hungry anymore.

It seems you are well-versed in such delights, but this meal is special. You usually suck the memories of any creature you find available. You suck them until their minds are empty. But this one has tapped deeply into the _Force_ , which means his mind is _heightened_ , twisted and troubled. The memories are tinged with deep hatred and sadness and regret. A young boy training on a distant island in the middle of the sea. His wobbly knees scrape against sharp cliffs. His lanky body shivers at night when the rain beats heavily on the roof of the hut. His stomach roils at the thought of drinking blue milk.

He regards old Skywalker with mistrust. He admires him. He wishes he were his father. He wishes he had never met him. He is filled with forbidden desire. He touches himself one morning and Luke can feel him through the Force. Ben cries bitter tears. He wants to atone. He wants to relinquish. He wants _so_ much.

It’s a wonderful, fucked-up cocktail.

It burns down your throat, it’s _so_ good. 

Kylo Ren collapses in your arms and you hold him by the waist as he moans for you to stop. Poor thing, he’s still trying to use the Force.

He collapses on the sticky floor.

You straddle him, your mouth red as a brick.

The best kind of memory-sucking is through the mouth, you remember this.

You start remembering lots of things. They all come instinctively.

You lower your head towards his youthful face. He is beautiful, if a little unequal. His features seem to collapse on each other. Everything is big, everything is fragile. His eyes are dark and moist as he regards you. A terrified animal.

You lick his lips with your tongue, and he trembles underneath you. He is young again, and he is tormented by what he shouldn't have. You want to tell him it's okay to touch himself now. You place a hand on his throat to keep him down and then you press your mouth against his, cleaving your lips to his. You glide on his mouth, the hungry succubus trying to get in.

He can’t help but respond as you swipe your tongue against his, tickling his nervous system, seizing more of his memories. Indulging him, really. 

He kisses back, seeing himself on the island, watching the boy slip away... He tries to cling onto you, not understanding that you are eating the boy.

You grind against his hips as he grows weaker, as the “kiss” turns his skin ashen. His hands try to push you away, but all he manages to do is brush your hair. He even twirls a strand around his finger. 

The last thing he says against your lips is, “Ben…”

Not your name. His name.

You say it too. _Ben_ , as you bite his lip. He groans, mournfully, happily. 

Eventually, you break away. You feel all that power, all those memories trickling down your chin. 

Further down the tunnel, you see the shape of a twisted fetus, crawling towards the two of you.

You untangle yourself from the fallen Ben.

This must be Supreme Leader Snoke. You wrinkle your nose.  You won’t be kissing him.

 

 

The Great Hall spins into focus. You take a deep breath. God, you haven’t felt so full in _ages_. It’s so good to eat.

The black figure is kneeling again, holding his hands against his helmet, trying to pry it open.

He keeps asking, “Who am I? Where am I? Someone, please _tell_ me. Someone help me.”

He needs air, he needs answers. He's keening. He can't remove the helmet. 

Supreme Leader Snoke lies back in his throne, staring absently in the horizon.

“What…?” he asks lethargically. “Hmmm…?”

The guards don’t know what to do. They can’t make sense of this vacuum, or why their leaders have broken down. They ought to kill you, but they’re not sure if that would be the right course of action. Did you do this? Can you _undo_ it?

A few hours later, the medical unit concludes that both Kylo Ren and Supreme Leader Snoke have undergone brain trauma and are suffering from amnesia.

You have been relegated to your usual cell, where you await the leadership’s decision.

Too bad the leadership can’t remember anything.

But you?

Oh, you remember all right. You have _plenty_ of memories now. You have Ben Solo’s whole mawkish life story to mince, and the unsavory but fascinating tales of one Darth Plagueis.

It matters little that you still don’t know who you are. That’s not the point.

This _is_ who you are.

You don’t have memories of your own, you never will. But that's okay.  Every once in a while, you get the chance to feed. And then, you have all the memories in the world. 


End file.
